Don't Say a Word
by iheartoatmeal
Summary: Silver blood, Blue blood, Drip. Drip. Dripping off the Glass Sword, Who will kneel, Who will kill, Who will wear the crown of crows? Send your best, Time will see, Who will shatter and who will bleed? But power shall come, to those who wreck, And those who use the Sword of Glass.


" _To die would be an awfully big adventure."-_ J.M Barrie, author of _Peter Pan_

 _ **1919 The Outskirts of London**_

The shadows liked to speak.

Every time I went to grandmother's house, deep in the night, the darkness would beckon me. "Go." They say, as I silently watched them from the corner of my small creaky bed. "Go, to the second star to the right, and straight on 'till morning. They are waiting for your return." As much as they talked, I always chose to ignore the talking shadows, grandmother always told to. Then again, grandmother believed Peter Pan was real. She always told me, her squinty eyes serious "Remember Moria, you must never say the words faith, trust, and pixie dust, never light a candle at three, and never, never tell the shadows you wish to go to Neverland."

Tonight, grandmother had left town with strict instructions to put salt under the window panes, and to butter the door knobs, "Salt, to block out Pan, and butter to stop his ability to cast curses." She had explained. I lay spread out on my bed, staring at the bare ceiling, illuminated by the wimpy moonlight; as my heart beated in time to the rain drops outside. _Thump ta Thump ta Thump ta Thump._ I gave a long sigh, I was bored. So, feeling rebellious and slightly curious, I quietly whispered, "Faith, trust, and… and pixie dust." I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the roof to explode… nothing. I tried again, though a little louder. Nothing happened. I chuckled softly, Grandmother had just been messing with me. So I drew up my battered copy of Little Women, and proceeded to light the candle by my bedside. Once the yellowy hue filled the room, I looked over at the old and loud grandfather clock positioned on the far end of my room that read three exact.

Suddenly a piercing sound came from downstairs. The wretched sound was as like thunder rolling across a chalkboard. I froze, my hairs prickling up as adrenaline was pumped into my body. Flight or flight my brain questioned me. Knowing I had nowhere to go, I buried my body under the thin blanket like an ostrich sticking its head in the ground. After a few breathless seconds, I tried to convince myself to go downstairs; it probably was grandmother coming into the house. I hissed as my bare feet kissed the cold wood floor and one shaky step after the other, I made my way to the door. As my hand turned the squeaky brass knob and I stepped in the dark hallway, I realized I had forgotten to butter the door knobs and put salt on the window panes.

I shivered as the cold shafts of wind taunted me through my paper thin night gown. I looked down the windowless hall that lead to dark obscurity. Out here, the shadows where everywhere, sensing my presence, they excitedly filled my mind with their unwanted invasion. "He is Here! He has Come!" They chanted, I shook my head, ignoring their urgent whispers. _Just My Imagination._ Mustering as much confidence as I could, I took a deep breath and smelled the heavily perfumed air, and with on hand on the smooth wall, I grimly continued.

As I passed the numerous doors that held rooms with no purpose, I came to a grand picture of J.M Barrie—my grandfather. Grandmother always told me that he had wrote the book Peter Pan in this very house, on the outskirts of London. I remember she had once told me I was named after Wendy Darlings middle name, Moria. I looked up at the stern looking man with the fine trimmed mustache. The artist had done an eerie job with his eyes though; they seemed empty and trapped, as though something was haunting him. _Strange, did I just notice that?_ Sighing, I urged my brain to focus back to the task at hand. And as I cautiously made my way down the creaky stairs that grandmother never bothered to get fixed, and I took a breath and timidly asked, "Grandma? Are you home?" I got no answer. Confused, I looked around the corner of the stair way and I stopped. _I saw it._

I stopped breathing, I stopped blinking, I stopped _being,_ and the globe stopped spinning. There was only it, the creature, the Peter Pan. He was both familiar and something I have never seen before. He had the blood red eyes of a demon that matched the colour of his hair, the green material of his shirt contrasted with the shadows _consuming him_. The darkness advanced and retreated, like a dark tide swallowing his body. His shadow and he had become one. The faint light from the windows outlined his body like an angel, _or a demon_. "Hello Wendy." The immortal boy softly said.

When I didn't respond, he continued, "Wendy, will you come back to Neverland?" After a delayed reaction, I realized he was talking to me. I cleared my throat and I squeaked, "I'm not Wendy." Peter looked amused, "Of course you are, and you look just like her. If you weren't, why would you break all the tasks the find me? You would say the words, light the candle at three, and come down when I made a sound of my choosing. Then we would go to Neverland." He answered with a delighted chuckle. I gasped, grandmother was right, she was right, she was always right. "Wendy, will you come to Neverland?" He asked again. _Wendy_. There it was again. I wasn't Wendy, I was plain little Moira, Wendy was a girl all girls like me could only dream of being. I wish I was Wendy, but I _wasn't,_ I was Moria _._ Moria. I shook my head, "No, get out." Grandma had always warned me on strange men coming into little girl's homes, girls that are never to be seen again. He looked taken back, and when he didn't say anything, I screamed "Get out of my house! Get Out!" Peter frowned and slowly his eyes clouded over with hot anger. "Wendy. You are making a huge mistake."  
I shook my head, "You are a bad man! Grandma doesn't want bad men in her house. Leave!"  
His jaw clenched and his hands turned into fists. He glared at me, his red eyes turned cloudy and dark, like a storm of blood was raging in his mind. Suddenly, his eyes cleared and he slowly grinned, "Are you sure?" I nodded. He grinned again, "Are you _sure_?" I nodded again. "Okay, _Wendy_." He paused, "If you love your little house in your little world so much, you can keep it. I will bind you to this home until you grow old and die, never able to leave." He paused, and his eyes turned dark, "I will make sure the shadows of the house haunt you, until you go insane. And as a little homecoming gift…" He snapped his fingers three times, each for the mistake I made. And with one more smile, he disappeared into the shadows.

The moment he left, I collapsed onto the floor, he was gone. _I was safe_. Suddenly someone knocked on the door, and I heard grandmother's voice, relief washed over me. This nightmare was over, grandma was here, and she would fix things. Grandma always fixed things. She would run her hands through my hair, whispering to me that it was alright, then bake me some cookies and I would eat till my stomach hurt. Yes, Grandma will protect me from the red haired monster. I ran to the door and flung it open. Suddenly, an invisible force threw me back, and I hit my head on the hard floor. I felt funny, and dizzy. I touched the back of my head and felt a warm slippery liquid coating me hands. I felt like crying, and I waited expecting Grandma to rush in and sooth me. She didn't come. Confused, I peered through the door expecting to see Grandma in her old Sunday frock, "Grandm— ." And I did she see her, crumpled on the floor. Her limbs bent at odd angles, her blood drained from her body, leaving her sickly pale. Her eyes were… gone. And resting on the very top of her head was a single red bow.

And I screamed. I screamed bloody murder. I screamed, and screamed, and screamed. But the only ones who heard were the shadows that liked to speak.

It started with a boy named Peter. And a night as dark as sin.

It happened when the moon was covered and the clouds looked like factory smoke. When the wind danced with knives and the air was biting and raw. The boy laid on the side of the wet road, a dark shape huddled and twitching with cold. The newly made metal hunkers gave off thumping noises as their tires beat the road. They did not stop for the boy.

The people on the street, back from a long day of work saw the boy as well. But they did what they did with all their troubles, and pretended they didn't see him. Walking quickly past him as they continued their sad, sad shuffle home. They did not stop for the boy.

The boy wanted to cry, but he was cold. Too cold. Cold, cold, cold. All he could think about was the cold ground, the cold air, and his cold soul.

A majestic arc of white energy sliced through the sky, illuminating the world in beautiful light. The boy stared at the lightning, savouring it, for he knew that all things in this world with beauty could not last. Nothing could be all good, and nothing could be all bad. There had to be balance or else the foundation would shatter. And as if on cue, a crashing, rumbling sound was heard in the distance. The thunder sent vibrations, shaking the earth into disarray, and slowly the first pieces of the rain came down.

The liquid ice droplets sliced the red skin of the boy's cheek. And slowly but surely, the water came down hard. It seemed that the world would not stop for the boy either.

The boy stared at the cloud infested sky. The frigid rain drenched his black hair and his threadbare clothes. He was going to die. A sob escaped his chest _, I was dying,_ he realized, as he slowly lost the feeling of his body. A sudden breeze blew and he could see a bit of the stars. His blue eyes widened trying to take in everything, before his world would go dark. And his line would be cut.

A dawning realization slowly spread through the boy. He would be forgotten. When he died, no one would mourn, there would be no fancy funeral for him. If he died tonight, the street sweepers would only dump his body into the trash the next morning. No one would care. And the world would forget him.

Something changed in the boy that night. Something dark and twisted and _wicked_. Hatred filled him, poisoning his mind with thoughts like black tar. Peter had spent his whole life lost, wandering, withering, and waiting for the world to give him some goodness. But as he stared at the people on the street, passing by, not even meeting his eye as he died… Peter grew hateful. He forgot the cold lonely boy he was before, as he burned with the need for vengeance and pain. Slowly, the boy's ebony hair and beautiful blue eyes transformed into the darkest shade of blood-red.

There the boy laid, on the side of a cold wet road as he died. And as his heart stilled and his eyes glazed over, the boy gave one last, vicious grin, and Peter Pan was created.


End file.
